


Plant the Seed so It Can Grow

by solarperigee



Series: Putting Down Roots [2]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Farm/Ranch, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Angst, M/M, Slow Burn Farm Acquisition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:07:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22096882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solarperigee/pseuds/solarperigee
Summary: Dex and Chowder met in college, bonded over a mutual love of hockey and food, and bought a small farm. Or, at least, that's the short way to tell it.The long way goes like this:
Relationships: Chris "Chowder" Chow/William "Dex" Poindexter, pre-polyfrogs
Series: Putting Down Roots [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/998046
Comments: 49
Kudos: 68
Collections: OMGCP AU Bang 2019





	Plant the Seed so It Can Grow

**Author's Note:**

> This is a prequel to TLIO, but will probably make sense without that context!!
> 
> a huge thank you to  
> \- the mgmp crowd for holding my hands, beta-ing this at every step of the way, and telling me that i didn't have to fact check every detail of this fic.  
> \- jayme, who prompted the original farm au two years ago, and hasn't stopped supporting my ridiculousness since  
> \- farmcord, for being so invested in [spoiler] and [spoiler] when y'all don't even _go here_  
>  \- claire, for laughing at me every time i tried to talk about chowder, but somehow loving this disaster of a premise anyway  
> \- pau, for lovingly pointing out all of the flaws in my earlier drafts and then helping me fix them  
> \- [matt, for some of the most wonderful art i have ever seen. i'm going to print it out and put it on my fridge.](https://amessnamedwidogast.tumblr.com/post/190111030868/)  
>  **and to viewers like you. thank you.**
> 
> see end notes for spoilery content warnings!

Dex and Chowder met in college, bonded over a mutual love of hockey and food, and bought a small farm. Or, at least, that's the short way to tell it.

The long way goes like this:

_X_

Will's shoulders are burned and peeling and every time he moves, his pads scrape against them.

He shifts uncomfortably on the bench, glaring at the ice in front of him.

“Hey,” someone jostles his elbow, and he hisses as his sunburn pulls taut again. “Ooh, sorry, dude.”

Will glances up to find a contrite goalie smiling at him.

“What did the ice ever do to you?” The goalie's smile widens and Will can see that his teeth are laced together with silver.

“What?” Will squints. Looking at the goalie's smile feels almost like looking at the sun.

“The ice. You're looking at it like it killed your dog,” the goalie's eyes widen. “Oh, boy, I hope you didn't have a dog die recently or that would be really insensitive, I'm sorry.”

Will finds himself startled into laughing, and he holds out a hand. “I’m William Poindexter, I play defense.”

The goalie grasps his glove with a bare hand. “Nice to meet you William. Will. _Dex._ I'm Chris Chow. And, uh,” he looks down at himself. “I'm a goalie. You could probably tell that, though.”

“If I'm Dex, you're Chowder,” Will teases.

“Chowder?” Chris nods to himself, biting down on another grin. “'Swawesome.”

_X_

They exchange numbers at the end of practice, and Chris puts his in Will's phone as _Chowder_ and smiles at him like it's an inside joke.

Will puts his contact name in as _Dex_ and basks in the full grin he gets in response.

And that's the end of it, Will thinks. They'll be teammates first, acquaintances second, maybe even friends.

Chris destroys that assumption almost immediately.

It's nearing midnight, barely two weeks into the semester, and Will's eyes are dry and burning from staring at his laptop, when his phone buzzes cheerfully next to his elbow.

He groans, scrubbing a hand over his eyes as he fumbles at his phone with the other.

It's from Chris and reads, _“sexiled :( can i come over?”_

Will’s own roommate, Jared, is out doing some sort of rush event.

He squints at the glowing numbers of his alarm clock, then his computer, essay still half finished and mocking him, before texting back a _“sure”_ followed by his building.

Less than thirty seconds pass before Chris replies with a string of smiley faces and a promise to bring pizza.

_X_

Chris texts him from the front door and Will goes to let him in. The night assistant barely glances at them before going back to her phone, and Will leads Chris up to his room in silence, not sure how to break it.

In the end, Chris does that for him, asking, “I heard this building’s haunted, is that true?”

Will glances around them, at the cinderblock walls and the exposed pipes lining the ceiling, and has to admit that it looks pretty fucking spooky.

“I don't know,” he answers honestly, running a hand through the tangled mess of his hair. “It's the oldest dorm on campus and it for sure looks like it would be, but I've got no clue.”

Chowder nods sagely. “I heard a girl died in the basement. We should check it out.”

Will stops to fiddle with unlocking his door and ushers Chris into his room. Chris sets the pizza down on Will's desk and immediately starts inspecting his posters.

“I really don't think we should do that,” Will says, trying not to laugh. “But if I see anything paranormal, I promise I'll call you.”

Chris smiles over his shoulder, eyes crinkling adorably at the corners. “Not the Ghostbusters?”

Will settles on his bed, cracking his laptop back open. “I'll call them second,” he promises.

“Probably a good idea,” Chris jokes, plopping himself down in Will's desk chair and pulling the pizza box towards himself. “I didn't know if you were vegetarian or not, so I just got cheese, that cool?”

Will reaches for a slice, and almost topples off his bed. Chris laughs at him and slides the box towards him, already sinking his teeth into a piece of his own.

Will manages to fit half the slice in his mouth at once, and groans deep in his throat, suddenly realizing how ravenous he is.

“I'm guessing it's fine,” Chris teases, and Will can feel his face do its best to match the color of the sauce staining his mouth.

_X_

Will's schedule is mostly gen eds, which is good, because it means he has a random archaeology class with Chris and because he doesn't have to choose his career path immediately.

Will's parents urge him to go into finance, saying something about how many jobs there are, but he knows how many small businesses his aunts and uncles own, and he knows he'll end up balancing the books for all of them.

What he _doesn't_ know is what he wants to do, so he does as they tell him.

_X_

Chris's parents want him to go into sustainable development, which Will thinks sounds cool, but apparently isn't. Chris says it makes him sad to think about pollution and political greed. The smile he gives Will after that is broken more than it's not, and Will can’t help thinking about the sound of rain on the glass recycling bins behind his dorm.

_X_

Will squints at his screen. His archaeology quiz stares back, mocking him.

He flips through his notes, then the coffee stained textbook he'd been issued, and finally guesses randomly.

A small red X pops up next to the question and he grits his teeth to keep from slamming the laptop closed.

"Woah there," a voice says, and Will's head snaps up. Chowder is standing next to him, towering slightly, a large coffee in one hand. "You look like you're going to explode."

Will can feel the muscles around his eyes relax and forces himself to unclench his fists. "I hate archaeology," he says. "People are stupid. We need to stop studying them."

Chowder chuckles softly and Will has a split second of rage where he imagines stealing Chowder's coffee, pushing him over, and climbing a bookcase like some kind of library goblin.

"Shut up," Will grumbles. "Who cares about the Solutreans anyway? They're all dead."

Chowder sits down next to him, shoulder to shoulder, and Will has to take a deep breath. "Here," Chowder says calmly, wrapping Will's hand around the warm paper cup. "Drink this and then we'll go over the quiz."

Will has to blink fast to see through the hearts in his eyes.

_X_

Will hugs Chowder goodbye after spring finals, clapping him on the back awkwardly and then holding on even more awkwardly when Chowder laughs and turns their bro-hug into a genuine one.

“I’ll see you next year?” Will asks, even though he had helped Chowder plan his schedule for the coming fall.

Chowder smiles, his braces glinting in the sun. “For sure! Don’t abandon me for Maine, okay?”

Will laughs like he’s supposed to, but something heavy settles in his stomach.

_X_

So Will goes back to Maine, to being called Billy, back to working on Uncle Bert’s boat during the day and with his mom in the kitchen during the evening.

He listens to his parents brag about his A in econ and uncomfortably agrees when they deride his mythology professor for “being a quack” and giving him a C. He tells them about Chowder, making sure to call him Chris and lets them interrupt to ask about a girl he shared a project with in February. He fields questions about when he’ll transfer to his parents’ alma mater, and dismisses ones about Samwell being “the gay Ivy”.

He gets drunk with his older brother, Jake, and tries not to grimace at Jake’s stories of frat house pranks and skipped classes from his brief stint at the University of Maine. He almost chokes on his warm beer when Jake asks if he’s added any notches on his bedpost, and coughs it out with Jake laughing and slapping his back.

When he passes Bert balancing the books at the end of a long day, his uncle looks up and cracks a joke about making Billy do them for practice. Billy lets out a stilted _haha_ , and leaves as fast as he can without looking like he’s running away.

So Billy goes back to Samwell, back to being called Dex, back to defending Chowder on the ice and quietly falling in love with him off of it. 

_X_

"I'm a failure!" Chowder hollers, bursting through Will's door and collapsing into his desk chair. "Ask me how!"

Will saves his worksheet progress, what little of it he's puzzled out, and closes his laptop halfway. "How are you a failure, Chris Chow?" he asks dutifully. Will can feel the throbbing math-related headache behind his eyes starting to recede already.

"He failed me for ink color!! Can you believe he took off points 'cause I didn't have a black ink pen? Like, it's still perfectly legible in blue, what the heck."

Chris crumples up the failed quiz and flings it at the trashcan— a perfect parabola, Will's dazed math brain notes— and misses. He makes a huffy grumpy sound as he leans out of his chair to retrieve it, and his t-shirt rides up just enough for Will to catch a glimpse of the waistband and top inch of Chris's lucky boxer briefs.

A pair of threadbare, cartoon shark printed underwear shouldn't be able to sock a grown man in the gut with longing, but it does, and Will can _taste_ it.

He tucks the stolen glance away like it's the Mona Lisa, and manages to get his eyes back on his textbook before Chris rights himself.

_X_

Chowder steals his hoodie. When Will confronts him (a startled “Hey! That’s mine,” when he sees Chowder put it on after practice), Chowder sticks his tongue out at him.

“I’m from California, I’m pretty sure I need it more than you do, lobster-boy,” he laughs, zipping it half closed over his bare chest.

Will tries to stammer out a witty response, but mostly turns red.

Chowder takes pity on him and changes the subject.

_X_

Will finds an almost identical hoodie in his stall before their next practice, except it has Chowder’s number on the chest instead of his own and smells like Chowder’s deodorant.

Will puts it on after practice and pretends he isn’t subtly sniffing the collar.

_X_

They make a pact, sometime in the middle of their sophomore year.

Chris is slumped over his desk, head in hands, worryingly silent. Had he been groaning dramatically, Will could've ignored him, but as it is, he keeps darting glances at the sad lump of teal fabric and black hair.

He gives Chris fifteen minutes of wallowing before he sets his laptop aside and claws his way out of the nest of Sharks plushies and blankets that make up Chris's bed.

"Chowder," Will starts, keeping his voice gentle and his hand even gentler when he rests it on Chris's shoulder. "What's up, buddy?"

Chowder adjusts his slouch so he's leaning on Dex, and Dex wraps his arm around his friend.

"I don't like this, Will," Chris whispers, and _god_ , Will would give anything to keep from hearing him sound so defeated ever again.

Will jostles him gently and makes an inquisitive noise.

"I feel like I'm just. Waiting. For this semester to be over, to get my degree, to get a job. And I," he laughs helplessly. "I don't even want to study global development and technology. I don't want to spend my life waiting for the end of the day, or the week, or anything. I want to enjoy it." His voice cracks on the last word, and he buries his face in Will's side.

Will hums sympathetically and pretends Chris's words aren't carving a hole through the center of his chest, right through the spot where they echo, where he tucks away all his doubts and fears and worries.

"Come here, Chris," Will uses both hands, planted firmly on Chris's shoulders, to pull his wheelie chair away from his desk. He dumps the protesting goalie into his bed, and clambers up next to him to wrap around him like a human blanket.

He bundles Chris against his chest, running a hand through his hair, and takes a moment to appreciate how soft it is, how good he smells. And then Will files that information away to never think about again.

"I know," he whispers into Chris's hair. "I know, me too."

Chris shakes against his chest, and Will can feel his shirt starting to soak through. His eyes burn and he wills himself to keep it together, for Chris, for himself, but it's so fucking hard because, yes, he knows exactly how Chris feels. He knows how it feels to have your parents carve out a path for you before you're old enough to walk, how it feels to have all your decisions made, and god, he hates it, but not as much as he hates that Chris feels it too.

Not as much as he hates watching his best friend's life unfold and make him miserable, both of them helpless to stop it.

It takes a while, but Chris either tires himself out or runs out of water, and gradually, his sobbing subsides. He untangles his grip on Will's shirt and scoots back far enough to look at him and Will knows he must look a mess right now, but he holds eye contact.

Whatever Chris was looking for in his expression, he must find it, because he takes a deep breath and sits up. Will pushes himself up to recline in his elbows, not yet ready to let Chris out of his sight. Chris doesn't go far, only pulling away enough to reach for a tissue and blow his nose, before tossing it towards the trash can and flopping back down next to Will.

Chris sighs, shoving both hands through his hair. “Sorry about that,” he says, flicking a glance over to Will. “I know you didn't sign up to be a human Kleenex.”

“No!” Will says, too fast, and curses himself. “I mean, it's not that I _want_ to, per se, but if that's what you need, I'll be that for you.”

Chris smiles up at him, and Will melts a little bit.

“You're good people, Poindexter.”

Will can't help but smile back. “As are you, Chow.”

Chris rolls onto his side, curling back into Will's chest, where he muffles his voice and says, “it's just kind of a shitshow isn't it?”

Will turns towards him, forever feeling like a flower turning to face the sun, and they lie there like two parentheses. “What is?”

“Our parents, ya know? Like, I don't want to go around testing factory emissions, until I turn sixty-five and retire or die, and I know you don't want to argue with people about warehousing and wholesalers or whatever for that long either, and it just. It just _sucks_.”

He punctuates his last sentence by thwacking Will in the chest with both fists, and Will takes a second to wheeze at him.

Chris grimaces apologetically.

“What if,” he starts, having gotten his breath back, along with an idea. A beautiful, terrible idea. “What if we did something else?”

“Oh, shit, sorry,” Chris starts to pull away and Will stops him with a hand on his hip, probably smiling with more fondness than the misunderstanding warrants.

“Not what I meant, Chowder.”

Chris scoots back into Will’s space, huffing a laugh at himself. “Explain yourself, _Dex_.”

“What if,” Will hesitates, scrunching his eyes closed, painfully aware of the ridiculousness of what he’s about to say. “What if I kept my Econ major and you kept Sustainable Dev, but we changed the concentrations? And then, when we graduate, we could, like, start a farm or something.”

He waits for Chris to laugh at him, to tell him how dumb it is to want to start a farm with your best friend, but now that he’s thought of it, there isn’t anything he wants more.

He opens his eyes slowly. Chris is staring past him, out the window, his eyes unguarded and thoughtful, and Will lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“We don’t have to, I mean, it was just an idea,” Will babbles, his face heating up as he tries to salvage some dignity.

“Shhh,” Chowder tells him, voice awash with fondness. “Let me think.”

Will feels himself turn an even deeper shade of red and tries to hide it by burrowing into the pile of sharks.

Eventually, Chris tugs him out of the Shark Shack of Shame.

“Hey,” his voice is gentle, and Will’s heart sinks. “Hey, no, don’t make that face. I’m not saying no, but I can’t say yes, either, okay? I have to think about it, and talk to my advisor, and maybe call my mom? But thank you, y’know, for the idea? It was really nice of you, and if you’re serious, I do like the sound of it.”

Will barely manages to turn his grin into a small quirk of his lips. “Yeah,” he says softly. “Me too.”

He basks in their nearness for a while as the sun goes down behind him, and Chowder starts to doze off. Eventually, he checks his watch and groans.

Chowder groans right back at him and squirms closer in his sleep until he's resting his head on Will's collarbone, his breath fanning across Will's skin in the most distracting way.

Will considers his options. He could wake Chowder up and leave, try to sneak out without waking him, or join him. The prospect of sleep quickly wins out, and he stretches out more comfortably and, after a moment's hesitation, lets himself wrap an arm around Chris.

Chris snuffles against his neck and Will sighs.

He doesn't fall asleep for a long time.

_X_

The thing is.

It isn't the first time Will has thought of owning his own farm. He knows it's hard work, but it can't be worse than pulling long days on Uncle Bert's lobster boat. At least on a farm he wouldn't have to deal with being seasick until he readjusts to being on the ocean.

During his freshman year, he'd started growing a couple herbs on his windowsill. He had to glare Jared into letting him keep the blinds open 24/7 but it was worth it for the bright green leaves of the basil greeting him every morning.

It reminded him of his mother's garden, the Saturday afternoons they spent weeding it and making sure the deer hadn't done too much damage. It was the only chore he'd actually enjoyed, back when everything was simpler.

Rathbone, the basil— named after a 1940s actor his younger sister had had a crush on— was also a good listener, and Will had read that talking to your plants was good for them. By the end of the semester, they'd heard all about his struggles with different professors' teaching styles and his boredom with dining hall food, and his slight crush on his best friend.

Will had been a little afraid that if Chowder ever ate any of his basil, he'd be able to taste the pining, but there hadn't been any complaints or revelations the first time Chris piled it on his pizza.

But Rathbone (and Rathbone 2, the windowsill's current resident) aside, Will finds himself staring out the window during class, longing to be outside, wrist deep in dirt, _making_ something. The inevitable sunburn, the muscle aches, the dirt stains, he knows they'd all be worth it if he could _do_ something, if he could raise food from practically nothing.

Sometimes, his bones ache with the need to create something, to be an active part of the world and not just a bystander, to help plants and people grow, to make things better. 

Sometimes he feels helpless in his inabilities.

So, no. It isn't the first time he's thought of owning a farm.

But it is the first time he actually looks into it.

_X_

There's an organization nearby that offers pay-what-you-can workshops on new agricultural technology and methods, hosts a massive seed library, connects aspiring farmers with veterans willing to share their expertise, and rents plots of land on an "incubator farm" for a low-risk trial run of farming.

It's perfect.

Samwell offers an agroecology degree geared towards sustainable agriculture, and an economics degree focused on starting and managing small businesses.

Will compares his transcript to the pre-reqs for the econ program, closes his eyes for a few breaths, and clicks submit.

He doesn't tell his parents, or Chowder.

Before shutting down his laptop for the night, he prints off the workshop schedule for the rest of the semester.

Then, he lies down and quietly panics.

_X_

They lose to Harvard on the road, and Will aches in every bone and muscle. His knuckles are bruised from taking out some fucker who wouldn't stay out of the blue paint, and his shoulder is stiff from being boarded in the second.

He rests his head against the window of the bus and tries not to think too hard about missed passes and bungled interceptions. It doesn't work, but the vibration of the window makes his brain feel like it's been put in a blender, and he decides that's basically the same as not thinking.

The seat dips as someone sits next to him, and he doesn't have to look to know it's Chris. A small shark plushie appears in front of him, and Will cuddles it close.

They sit in silence for a while, Will holding the shark, Chowder playing solitaire on his phone, until Will takes a deep breath, bites the bullet, and adjusts so he's resting his head, tentatively, on Chris's shoulder.

The second Will's head touches his shoulder, Chris's whole posture shifts, and he sinks into the seat, relaxing his shoulder until it's the perfect height for Will to burrow into.

"Hey," he whispers, and Will tilts his head to look up at him. "There's something I want to show you."

Chris hands Will his phone and Will stares at it uncomprehending for a second. It's an email, that reads "congratulations, Christopher Chow, on your admittance to the Samwell College of Agricultural Sciences".

"What?" Will asks, hardly hoping to believe.

"I thought about it," Chris says. "And I decided I'm in. My advisor isn't sure it's such a good idea, but she also told me that Psych 101 was an easy A, and I've never been more confused about having a brain in my life." He shrugs, careful not to displace Will. "It's a lot better than the alternative, that's for sure."

Will feels an exhausted grin creep over his face, and he closes his eyes to snuggle closer to Chris, shark still safely tucked under his arm. "Just you wait," Will mumbles. "We're going to be outstanding in our field."

Chris chuckles quietly and Will can feel Chris's breath ruffle his hair. "Out standing in our field? Only when the weather's nice, I hope."

_X_

Chris is the one who finds the community garden program.

He waits until Spring, when they need help weeding and prepping the beds for planting, then schedules them to help out on a Thursday afternoon after class.

He herds Will onto the bus, glancing around as if they're being followed, and Will rolls his eyes. 

"Just tell me where we're going, dork," Will sighs. "We aren't spies or anything."

Chris sticks his nose in the air. "That's what _you_ think."

Will groans loudly to hide his smile, and they get a dirty look from the old lady cradling a box of plastic plants.

The bus lets them off in a part of town Will doesn't know very well, but Chris confidently leads him by the arm, taking a left, then a right.

Will pulls up Google maps while they're waiting at a crosswalk, but Chris snatches his phone out of his hands before he can explore their surroundings.

"It's a _surprise_ , Poindexter. Get some patience," Chris scolds, sliding the phone back into Will's pocket. His hand skims a sliver of bare skin where Will's shirt had ridden up, and Will is too busy suppressing a shiver to complain.

Finally, they come to a stop at a waist-high white fence, painted with vines. The gate reads _Grow Together Community Garden_ in loopy, Samwell red letters.

"Oh, shit," Will blurts excitedly, leaning over the fence. "Do you think we can—"

"Yeah," Chris grins. "I did the volunteer training and everything, we're totally clear. I mean, you'll have to do it too if you wanna come here without me, but we're good for now."

Will can't help the rush of love he feels, or how much he wants to kiss Chris, but he's used to those feelings, and he's almost certain they don't show on his face.

Chris unlatches the gate, and swings it open.

"After you, my good sir," he says, sweeping a dramatic bow. "Allow me to give you the grand tour."

_X_

Will doesn't tell his parents. It's not that he's ashamed or anything, he just _knows_ it wouldn't go well.

They have good intentions, he knows they do, but he's never quite measured up. Jake had dropped out of college halfway through his junior year, and has been working in Aunt Cathy's hardware store ever since. He's pretty sure their parents don't love him any less, but any expectations they had of him have trickled down to rest on Will's shoulders.

Will was salutatorian of his high school class, led his hockey team in d-man goals two years in a row, and balanced the obligations of both with a part time job.

He'd been offered a full ride to both Samwell and Amherst, and partials to a few in-state.

It wasn't enough. It never would be. 

His father wouldn't speak to him for two days after Will chose Samwell, having previously said it was too far away and not nearly as good as University of Maine. Will had spent hours weeding the garden or locking himself in his room, whispering "one in four" to himself.

Samwell was the first wholly selfish choice he can remember making.

He tells Rathbone 2 about his new schedule more than once, whispering excitedly as he plucks off any damaged or wilting leaves.

It's probably ridiculous for his prize possession to be a basil plant from the world's sketchiest Stop&Shop, but it is.

So he lies through his teeth when his mother calls, and he baits his dad into dissecting his game tape from two states away, and he ignores the aching hollowness in his chest when he thinks about spending another summer on the boat with sunlight bouncing off the water and into his eyes and only Uncle Bert for company.

He misses Chowder already, preemptively, even though they see each other daily.

Will tries to avoid prodding at the feeling like a missing tooth, but it comes to him at the strangest times, when he makes Chris laugh particularly hard, when his study session is interrupted by a picture of a dog Chris met while walking to class, when he's falling asleep. 

Will tries to keep to himself, but even he has to admit it's hard to tell where he ends and Chris begins.

They kneel across from each other in the community garden, separated by a bed of sugar snap plants, weeding out what needs to go and collecting the ones that are ready to harvest.

"If I find one more jewelweed, I'm gonna snap," Chris announces, yanking a particularly thick and uncooperative weed out of the soil.

"You're gonna sugar snap?" Will asks, not looking up from the plants, as if that would hide his dumb expression.

A clod of dirt attached to a jewelweed sprout hits him in the chest.

Will catches it, tears a leaf off with his teeth, chews it up, and spits it on a particularly irritating bug bite on his forearm.

Chris looks on in disgusted fascination.

"What?" Will asks, laughing at the look on Chris's face.

"I don't know how you can do that," Chris says, pulling up another weed and tossing it in the pile. "Isn't it, like, gross?"

"Nah, I mean, it's technically toxic if you eat a bunch of it raw, but it doesn't taste super bad. The seed pods kind of taste like walnuts."

"It's toxic?" Chris repeats, frantically thrusting his water bottle at Will. It's plastered with encouraging shark stickers. "Oh my god, rinse out your mouth." 

Will accepts the water bottle and rolls his eyes to cover up how sappy he feels in the face of Chris's concern.

He rinses and spits twice, before handing it back.

"Happy?" Will asks, aiming for snarky and landing somewhere too soft and tender for that.

"Delighted," Chris replies, sounding genuinely pleased.

Will's cheeks flame and for once he hopes he's getting a sunburn.

_X_

The sun beats down on the garden, and Will reclines next to Chris against one of the sturdy shade trees that line the edge.

A small bird is splashing in the bird bath, chirping happily, and under the dirt and sweat, Will feels like he can breathe for the first time in weeks.

"Finals're soon," Chris says into the quiet space between them. He's braiding strands of grass together, absentmindedly. Chris always has to have something to do with his hands.

Will hums an affirmative, tilting his face toward the sun, and lets himself pretend he can photosynthesize.

"What're you gonna do this summer?" Chris asks, uncharacteristically quiet, and Will feels the missing weight settle back down on his chest.

Will takes a deep breath. "I'm staying here," he says, still refusing to open his eyes. “Josie at MassAg helped me find someone who needs a farmhand. She said I could learn on the job, and if I worked hard, she'd recommend me for the incubator farm. We'd have a place, Chris."

"What do your parents think about that?" Chris sounds wary but not scolding, and Will finally opens his eyes.

He immediately wishes he hadn't. Chris's brow is furrowed, like he's forgotten a vocabulary word and can't check his flashcards.

"They think I have an internship," Will says carefully.

Chowder's face says it all.

"They aren't _wrong_ ," Will hedges. "It just isn't the kind they'd expect."

"You have to tell them eventually, Will." Chris's voice is so gentle, it hurts. "It might not be as bad as you think. Mine took a little while to get used to it, but they came around."

Will stares at his own hands, palms calloused from hockey and hard work, nails black from the rich soil of the garden.

"They'll be disappointed," he says after a long moment. "I'm supposed to be better than Jake. I'm supposed to do finance and like it, and I'm supposed to finish my degree and move back home and spend the rest of my life in the same town. And if I don't," he takes a shuddering breath. "And if I don't, I'm just like Jake."

Chris bumps him with his shoulder. "That's not true. You're smart and successful and so darn passionate, and they should be proud of you. _I'm_ proud of you."

Will's heart skips. "I miss you," he blurts suddenly, talking to Chris's hands in the grass instead of his face.

"Yeah, bud, I'll miss you too," Chris replies easily.

"No," Will says, buoyed by a reckless kind of courage, the kind that only comes when you don't have anything else to lose. "I miss you _now_ . It's stupid, but I _do_."

Chris stops braiding. "I'm right here," he whispers. "You have me, right here."

Will is on fire. "What if you change your mind?"

Chris offers him a half smile, and takes his hand, folding it gently around the grass braid. "I'll be here. As long as you'll keep me."

Chris's phone goes off in his pocket and he peeks at the screen. "Shoot. I forgot I have tutoring tonight. Are you gonna be okay?"

Will tightens his group on the woven grass. "Yeah. I'll see you tomorrow?" There's no reason for their schedule to have changed, but it feels imperative to ask.

"Yeah," Chris smiles, getting to his feet. "Same bat time, same bat channel."

Will watches him go, and stares after him for a while after he's gone.

Belatedly, he realizes he's still clenching his fist, and exhales forcefully, relaxing his grip finger by finger.

When he finally looks down at the thin green strip, he nearly chokes on his breath.

It's a ring.

_X_

Will blinks and all of a sudden, finals are upon him and he finds himself staring down the barrel of a plane ticket that's going to take his best friend away from him.

He stares at the grass ring, now brittle and brown, and tries to work up the nerve to say something.

His feelings for Chris bloom in his chest, too big for words, and they coil around every bone, thought, and word like vines. There are not enough letters in the world to explain the way Will finds himself reaching inexorably toward Chris, like roots seeking water.

So he says nothing.

In the end, he drops Chris off at the airport. It's almost painfully early, and the parking lot has more empty spaces than Will has ever seen there. He helps Chris unload his bags and stack them before turning to the man himself, hands crammed awkwardly in his pockets.

Chris, to his credit, looks normal, as if his heart isn't being wrung out like a wet dishcloth.

"So," Will says, rocking forward on his toes, then back onto his heels.

"Yeah," Chris replies.

Will isn't sure who moves first, but somewhere in the space between heartbeats, his arms are around Chris, and Chris is clutching him just as tightly, one broad hand sweeping up and down Will's back in a slow comforting rhythm.

Will buries his face in the join of Chowder's neck and shoulder and breathes deeply, like if he can get Chris far enough into his lungs, he won't have to let him go.

Chris's arms tighten for a brief moment and his hand slows to a stop.

"I don't want you to leave," Will whispers, ashamed.

"I know," Chris replies, and it sounds like _me neither._

"It wasn't like this last summer," Will confesses.

"I know," Chris repeats, his voice equally wretched.

After another long silence, Chris pulls back enough that Will can see his face. "I'll be back in August," Chris offers, as much for himself as for Will. "It'll be so fast you won't even have time to miss me."

Will bites his lip and nods.

Chris brushes Will's hair away from his forehead, and his hand settles on the side of Will's neck. "We're gonna be okay," Chris tells him, and this time it sounds like a promise.

Will nods again, steeling himself against the inevitable.

Chris pulls him close again, and Will ducks his head to bury it back in Chris's shoulder, but the hand on his neck stops him.

He looks up, eyebrows drawn together, and Chris kisses him.

Everything stops. Will's eyes slip closed and the world stops existing outside of the airport parking lot.

Something inside of him is on fire.

Chris's mouth is soft and sure, his hands firm on Will's body, and Will suddenly understands why people sleep with weighted blankets.

A year, an eternity, a few minutes later, a speaker crackles to life, announcing, "Attention passengers of flight 1634 round trip to San Jose, the departure gate has been changed to 55. Thank you for your patience." The message repeats once in English, then twice in Spanish.

Chris pulls away, and Will lets his eyes flutter back open.

"August," Chris says, firmly.

"August," Will answers. He lets himself grab Chris's hand and squeeze once. Chris squeezes back.

Then, he turns and walks away, to his gate, to California, away from Will.

He doesn't look back.

Will leans against the side of his car and blinks after him, wondering whose regret he can taste, tangled with the flavor of Chris's weird cinnamon toothpaste.

He stares at the sky for a long time, wondering, illogically, if he'd be able to tell which departing plane (toy sized in the sprawling sky) carries Chris.

After a while, he turns the key in the ignition and leaves. He only has to make it until August.

_X_

The farm Josie hooked him up with is a little outside of Samwell. It's small, a handful of acres with a few goats and fenced-in plots of flowers and herbs, and the owners are welcoming.

Pat is almost as tall as he is, and about as broad, and her face is lined with so many years of laughter that looking at her makes him want to smile. She greets him at the kitchen door with a firm handshake and a wide grin. Her long black hair is streaked with grey and held up in a frizzy bun by a pencil.

"Sheila!" she calls over her shoulder. "He's here!"

Will hovers awkwardly in the doorway for a moment before Pat drags him inside.

Sheila wheels herself in from the next room, smiling just as wide. "Hey there," she says, with a southern accent softer than the edges of old books. "I hope you'll excuse me not standing on ceremony." Her eyes sparkle with mirth as Pat groans, and Will finds himself laughing.

The kitchen is warm and filled with sunlight, and Will can tell he's going to fit in fine.

During his first day, he drinks a lot of tea on the couch and learns that they fell in love at a protest rally when Pat watched Sheila punch a cop, they won the farm in a game of poker, and their kids left home a few years ago, leaving a couple of empty rooms in the house and a lot of extra work on the farm.

Sheila broke her hip shortly after the start of spring, and the recovery has been a long and arduous process.

"The worst part of it," she says, sipping delicately from her own mug. "is not getting to see the kids."

"They don't come visit?" Will asks, shocked. He thought he'd gotten a good impression of their relationship with their children from the stories they told.

Sheila sighs. "They come up to the porch, but it's not the same. And besides, they can't come in the house."

Still confused, he turns to look at Pat, who laughs. "She means the goats, honey. Our children visit plenty. Hell, you'll probably meet a couple of 'em before the week is out."

"Oh," Will says, looking between them, somehow surprised by that as well. "Well, in that case, I can't wait."

Pat nods approvingly. "You'll fit right in, kid. Before we forget, lemme show you where you'll be bedding down."

_X_

The room Pat shows him to is small, in a cozy way that makes his chest ache, for Chris or his family, he isn't sure which.

The walls are pocked with thumbtack holes from a lifetime of posters, and the bookshelf by the window is practically bending under the weight of the eclectic collection it holds. The window itself gives the room a wash of warm sunlight, and for a brief guilty moment, Will allows himself to imagine being a teenager with Pat and Sheila for parents.

There's a picture on the wall of Sheila, Pat, and a young woman, all grinning widely.

"That's Ellie," Pat says, following his gaze. "She's busy with summer classes, but we usually manage to guilt her into visiting every couple weeks."

"What's her major?" Will asks, even though he'd rather get unpacked and stare into space than listen to someone else's parents be proud of them.

Pat lights up. "She started off in psychology, but her favorite part was child development, so she changed to elementary education and she likes it so much better. She changed kind of late though, so she's trying to make up some credits so she can still graduate on time."

"Wow," he says around a sudden lump in his throat. "She sounds super smart."

Pat nods, and he feels like he's passed a test. "Our Ellie is something special."

"I can see that," Will offers, forcing a small laugh.

_X_

The first job they give him is weeding the plant beds, which isn’t his favorite, but is familiar and meditative enough for him to let his mind wander.

He gets lost, following his thoughts like a connect-the-dots, from his anxiety about his fake internship, to his anxiety about his fake major, to anxiety about disappointing his parents, to being angry at his brother.

It’s not that Will thinks everything is Jake’s fault. It isn’t. He just thinks that maybe life would have been easier if Jake hadn’t been such an overachiever, if Jake hadn’t smirked every time Will failed to beat his high scores, if those high scores hadn’t included EOG scores and grades and GPAs.

He’s so lost in thought that he yelps when something tickles his leg, thinking a spider had crawled up his shorts.

It’s just his phone, and he unlocks it, expecting to see a message from Chowder.

He finds a message from Sheila, asking if he’s planning to come in for lunch, or if she should put the soup away.

He tells her he’s on his way, and hauls himself to his feet, only swaying a little at the change in posture, and scoops up his bucket of weeds to give to the goats.

_X_

It rains that afternoon, and Sheila tsks at the idea of Will going back outside, so she gives him some odd jobs around the house. It isn’t technically part of his internship, but he doesn’t like the idea of Pat standing on a chair to change the light above the sink, and he can tell it makes Sheila nervous too.

They talk a little, mostly about Will’s classes and Sheila’s actual business-owning experience and Will finds himself relaxing for the first time since he dropped Chowder off at the airport.

“You said you were from Maine, right?” Sheila says, glancing at him over the thin wire rims of her bifocals. “Is your family still up there?”

She’s already back to looking at her computer, but she must see him freeze, because instead of waiting for an answer, she changes the subject to ask what he thinks of a new design for their market banner.

_X_

It takes a couple of weeks before they let him come to the market, wanting to give him a chance to get settled and learn the ropes first.

When they finally do, it's loud, with rivers of people running up and down the thoroughfare, and Will is grateful for the modicum of protection the booth offers.

Pat and Sheila sell tea and goat's milk soap, both made from dried flowers and herbs they grow on the farm. And now, in an effort to relate the summer to his major in any way, Will does too.

He took a picture of the stall after they set up, just before the market opened, and it's sitting in his drafts, ready to be sent to Chris, if he could think of anything to say with it. Their last conversation ("landed safely!", "good job!") stares up at him.

"Will?" Pat asks. "Could you get that last box?"

Will blinks, mentally shaking himself. He shoves his phone back into his pocket.

"Yeah, of course," he answers, trying on a smile.

It doesn't fit quite right, and he hides it by ducking to pick up the box.

_X_

The goats all seem to have one of three personalities: sweetheart, idiot, and bastard.

Will's favorite is named Dolly, and she's only a couple years old but already looks like a tired grandma.

"I just wish he'd say something, y'know?" Will tells her, sitting on the bottom step of the porch. "Like, I'd live if he shot me down, but the radio silence is the worst."

Dolly chews on some leaves and stares at him with blank eyes.

Cozy, one of the bastards, sticks out his neck to get a mouthful of Will's jeans.

Will sighs and nudges Cozy away with the toe of his shoe, which works for a handful of seconds. "You're right," he tells Dolly. "I should reach out to him and find out why he hasn't texted me in," he pauses to think. "A month and a half."

He startles when the stair next to him creaks. When he looks up, Pat is gingerly settling next to him.

Cozy quickly releases Will's pant leg and sets his chin on Pat's knee, the picture of innocence.

"I'm gettin' too old for this, Will," she says, teasing, and then, in response to his unasked question, "Sheila sent me out here. Said she'd do it herself if you didn't choose the one place she can't quite get to."

"S– sorry?" 

Pat sighs and throws an arm around his shoulders. "You ain't got nothin' to be sorry about, kiddo. We're just worried 'bout you."

He slumps against her a little. "I tried not to," he mutters, knowing it's maybe the most pathetic thing he's ever said.

Pat shakes him by the shoulders a little bit. "We could tell. You can make up for it by telling me what's on your mind."

"This is extortion," Will protests weakly.

"And I've had three kids worth of practice," she brags. "Spill."

"My best friend hasn't texted me since I dropped him off at the airport and I don't know why," he confesses, fixing his gaze on Dolly.

Pat makes a sympathetic noise. "That's an awful lot of upset for just a friend."

"He kissed me before he left," Will whispers shamefully.

"Oh, honey," Pat says, her voice raw with understanding, and her arm tightens around him.

"Yeah," he says nonsensically, and tries to pretend there aren't tears rolling down his cheeks.

Pat turns so she can wrap both arms around him, and tucks his face into her shoulder. Will feels too tall, curled forward as he is, but it doesn't stop him from leaning into Pat's sturdy frame and cry harder.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he notices Cozy get another gentle mouthful of cuff.

_X_

The next day he sends Chris the picture of the booth without a caption, turns his phone off, and hides it in the bottom of the cashbox.

It's a compromise.

_X_

It becomes an ongoing puzzle to see what it’ll take to get Chris to text him back.

So far the answer is not: goat pictures, stories from the farmers market, _baby_ goat pictures, or pictures of Will’s first, pitiful attempt at knitting (Sheila had laughed so hard while teaching him, she had had to put her needles down).

The lack of response is a little disheartening, but Will does it anyway.

He sets a reminder on his phone so he can’t pretend to forget, and starts falling asleep wrapped in shame and Chris’s hoodie.

_X_

His Mom calls on a Sunday afternoon in early July.

Will looks at his phone, then at Pat, who's gossiping with the old man who runs the honey booth next to them.

"Pat?" Will calls over, pointing at his phone. "Can I take this?"

Pat nods, waving him off, and Will climbs in the truck to get some privacy.

"Hey, Ma," he says. "What's up?"

"Nothing much, it's really quiet around here with Kayla working at that summer camp and Jake picking up extra hours so Cathy can finally take a vacation. I was just calling to check in on you! How's the internship?"

Will struggles to relax his shoulders and keep his voice light. "It's going well! I'm learning a lot and I've made a couple friends."

"Well, that's good! What do they have you doing, besides coffee runs?" She laughs at her own joke.

Will opens his mouth to lie and is interrupted by a clatter as the jam vendor on their other side slides a crate of jars out of their way.

"Billy, honey, where on Earth are you? It's so noisy."

His stomach twists, and he has to dig his fingernails into his palms just to think.

"Billy?"

"I'm at a farmers market, Ma," he says, and his voice barely trembles.

She laughs a little. "Why are you at a farmers market in the middle of the day?"

"I'm working here. For my internship."

She pauses for a long moment. "You said you were working with that pharmaceutical company."

Will takes a deep breath, and glances out the back window of the truck to see Pat throw her head back and laugh at something the beekeeper said.

"I lied. I'm working on a farm this summer. Also, I changed my major. I don't want to manage the finances for every small business in Maine, I want to grow shi— stuff."

There’s another long silence and Will winces at the face he knows she’s making.

"Billy, honey, be sensible," she scoffs. "There's no money in _farming_ . How are you going to support yourself and your future wife if you work on a _farm_ , never mind your children?"

"I—" The last time he felt like this, he had been in the middle of being crushed against the boards by a 200 pound d-man who'd hit him from behind.

"And besides," she continues. "When you finish your bachelor's next year, you have clients guaranteed, here at home."

"I don't—" 

"You don't want to come home? Is _that_ it? Don't be selfish, your family needs you."

"No, I—" Will wraps his fingers around the front of his collar, pulling it away from his throat, but it doesn't get any easier to breathe.

"And are you really going to throw away all your hard work on a whim? Honestly, Billy, I thought you were smarter than that, even if you did choose Samwell over UMaine. You know, when Jake—"

" _Mom_!" he shouts. " _Listen_ to me. You never listen to me!"

Will hears her mouth click shut.

"I don't _want_ to do accounting or finance or whatever. I don't _want_ to work for my aunts and uncles for the rest of my life. And, god, I don't give a fuck what Jake did or when, okay? I like it here. Samwell makes me happy. My new major makes me happy. Working on a farm _makes me happy_ , mom, what else do you want from me?"

There's a long silence, broken only by his heaving breaths.

"Work isn't about being happy, William. It's about getting paid," she says, and he can hear every minute of her 9-to-5 corporate job in her icy voice. "When you're done with your childish flights of fancy, you let me know."

And the line goes dead.

_X_

**Hi! You've reached the voicemail box of Christopher Chow! Sorry I can't answer the phone right now, but leave your name and number after the beep, and I'll call you back ASAP! Beeeeeeep!!**

_Hey. I, uh, told my mom. She didn't take it great. I miss you. Sorry, um. Call me back when you can._

**End of message.**

_Hey, sorry, it's De— Will. I didn't say that before. Okay, bye._

**End of message.**

_Hey, it's me again. Will. You probably recognized my voice so I probably didn't need to call back to say that. Or this. Shit. Sorry. Anyway, call me._

**End of message.**

**No unheard messages.**

_X_

Will doesn't remember how he gets back to the house, only that he was at the market and now he isn't, but it doesn't matter.

He shakes on the couch, holding a mug of tea with both white-knuckled hands, while Sheila and Pat whisper in the kitchen.

He needs to call his mom and apologize, tell her she's right and he'll fix it, but he can't bring himself to pick up his phone.

"Will?" Sheila places a hand on his knee and he jumps. "Wanna tell me what happened at the market?"

Will opens his mouth to say 'nothing', and a sob tears out of his throat instead, dragging the whole story with it.

"My parents told me to do finance and I hated it, but I thought I could do it anyway and be okay and not disappoint them, but I _can't_ . And I want—" he takes a gasping breath. "I want to grow things and help people but it's not _practical_ and she, she asked how I'd be able to support a _wife._ " Will's voice finally gives out on the last word.

"Oh, honey," Sheila whispers, sounding almost exactly like her wife. "That's awful."

"And I lied about it and now she's mad and what if– oh god– what if they won't let me finish my degree, or I have to go back to the college of business, fuck–" his breath is coming quick, like an accordion, and he would have dropped the coffee mug if Sheila hadn't expertly slid it from his hands.

"Will, deep breaths," Sheila says, breathing loud and slow to demonstrate. "It'll be okay, breathe for me."

"But what if—" he cuts himself off, gasping.

" _Will,_ " she says, louder than he's ever heard her, and he freezes, looking up at her like a deer in the headlights.

She smooths his hair back from his face, and her voice is softer when she speaks again. "Will, honey, I know you're upset, okay? And you have every reason to be. But don't for a second think you have to do everything alone. Now, you want to run a farm after you graduate?"

Will nods, trying to silently gulp down air.

"Well, I don't see a reason you can't, y'hear me? You've been about the biggest help we could've asked for this summer, and I know for a fact Patty agrees with me."

Sheila's voice is low, sure and steady, and Will clings to it.

"You're strong, and smart, and capable, okay?"

He nods.

"Say it for me, honey."

"I-I'm strong," Will takes a deep breath and Sheila nods encouragingly. "I'm strong, and smart, and capable."

She smiles, and Will almost believes it.

"Good. Now, I want you to know that no matter what happens from here, Pat and I are gonna do everything we can to keep you from gettin' hurt, okay? We can help you find scholarships if you need 'em, part time jobs, too. You mark my words, hon, we're getting you to graduation, and we're getting you there in one piece."

Will closes his eyes and lets himself sag against her shoulder. For one fragile moment, he lets himself hope.

_X_

Life settles down a little bit after that. Will weeds the plant beds and harvests herbs and flowers for Sheila to dry. On rainy days, he helps her chop the dried herbs and package them into biodegradable teabags and boxes. He hasn't quite gotten to the point where he feels like he can milk a goat without dying, but every time he nervously offers, Pat waves him off, laughing.

Between days at the market, they help him fill out scholarship applications, open a checking account in his own name, and contact other sellers from their market, asking for advice and odd jobs.

Slowly, his account becomes less barren, his hands become more calluses than blisters, and his future feels steadier; not guaranteed, nothing ever is, but he can almost reach out and touch it. 

He doesn't change his major. He doesn't call his mom. She doesn't try to call him either.

He thinks, maybe, if he can't keep Chris, and he can't go home, maybe he can make a new home here.

_X_

Will is working on the lavender beds farthest from the house, trying to coax the weeds out of the soil with their root systems intact so he won't have to go back for a trowel, when he hears footsteps crunching down the gravel path towards him.

Pat's out for the day, but Ellie and the other kids have dropped by unannounced before and joined him in whatever needs to be done before supper.

Will looks up, and the flinch of his hands rips the stem and leaves of a woodsorrel sprout from its roots.

He drops the torn leaves as he stands up, wiping his hands on his shorts, uncomfortably aware of how much dirt is ground into the fabric of his clothes, smudged across his bare skin, caked under his nails.

"Hi?" Chowder offers, from the other side of the bed, looking out of place and uncomfortable in his clean Sharks shirt and jeans. Will sees his hands twitch towards his pockets, and somehow it settles him to know that Chris is nervous too.

"Why are you here? I mean," Will catches himself and backpedals. "I thought you weren't coming ho— coming back until August."

Chowder smiles ruefully and shrugs. "I had some stuff I couldn't get out of my head. Unfinished business, I guess." He steps closer, slowly, as if he isn't sure he's allowed, and Will's heart aches.

"Yeah?" Will asks, his breath caught tight behind his ribs, wondering if—

"Yeah," Chowder says, ducking his head before visibly straightening up to meet Will's eyes. "I shouldn't have ghosted you after the airport," he starts, and it sounds like a plea.

Will's breath leaves him in a rush.

"If I stayed, or looked back, or anything, I was scared I wouldn't leave," Chowder continues, in the same voice he has when he's proofreading an email out loud for the dozenth time. "I didn't want to, and that scared me too. I'm sorry I didn't answer your texts, or text you first. My feelings were valid but the way I handled them affected you in ways I didn't intend, and I wish I could take it back."

"I—" Will croaks, wrapping his arms around himself tightly so he can't do anything stupid, like reach for Chowder. " _Chris_."

Chowder bites his lip, looks like he's staring down the last puck of a shootout, and says, "I have feelings for you," like he's bracing for the impact.

"You what?" Will blurts, like the words were knocked out of him. He didn't— he can't—

"I understand if you don't feel the same way, and I don't want this to change our friendship—"

"Chris, I _love_ you," Will interrupts. "I've loved you for so fucking long, I don't remember how it felt _not_ to."

Chowder freezes, mouth open. Distantly, Will realizes that his braces are gone, leaving his teeth straight, smooth, and white.

"I—" He says, bewildered, one hand slowly coming up to point at his own chest. "You… me?"

Will tries not to smile, and almost definitely fails. "Yeah, Chowder, I... you."

The corners of Chowder's mouth twitch up, but his eyes drop to the ground and his shoulders go tight. "Don't— I can't— don't chirp me about this, okay? Please?"

Will's stomach rolls, and he goes to step closer before realizing he'd have to step into the plant bed. "I'm not— I wouldn't," he promises.

Will looks down at their feet before taking a deliberate, careful step into the rich black soil of the lavender bed, then a second, until he's toe to toe with his best friend, his favorite goalie, his magnetic north.

"I need," Will pauses, his head spinning with everything that could follow that phrase; _a kiss, a break, you to tell me everything's going to be okay_. "I need you to tell me what you want. I need to know what page you're on."

Chowder's hand twitches towards him, freezes midair, and Will catches it before it can flee back to Chowder's pocket. Chowder laces their fingers together and holds on tight.

"I want to try dating. Like, dating you, not just dating in general, because I'm pretty sure—"

Will yanks Chowder's hand, bringing him stumbling into Will's arms. He squeezes tight. "Yeah," he whispers into Chowder's stunned silence. "I want to try that too."

_X_

Later, sitting next to each other against the headboard of Will's borrowed bed, Chris breaks the silence.

"I got your messages," he says hesitantly, staring at the curtains. "That's part of why I came."

Will looks down, sees their joined hands, and has to look away to quell the emotion boiling in his chest.

"Yeah," Will says, bitterly. "I came out as a farmer and she came out as farmerphobic."

Chris sputters a little. " _What_?"

"Apparently she won't indulge my 'childish flights of fancy' and 'doesn't want me to throw away all of my hard work on a whim' because if I don't go into accounting, I won't be able to 'support a wife' or whatever." 

"Wow," Chris says, his grip on Will's hand tightening. "Good thing you don't need to support a wife. Has she said anything else since then? Like, after she cooled off?"

Will avoids his gaze. "I wouldn't know. She said I could call back when I changed my mind, and I haven't, so. Y'know."

"Damn," Chris whispers. "That's messed up."

Will laughs semi-hysterically. "Yeah, dude."

"What about your dad? And your siblings?"

Will shrugs one shoulder. "Mom and Dad are usually a united front, and, like, you know how he felt about Samwell. I already don't really talk to Jake that much and Kayla's busy with SAT prep, but they haven't been texting me back less than usual? We haven't talked about it, so either they don't know or they don't care, I guess."

Chris tugs his hand, and Will lets himself be pulled into Chris's chest. The sound of Chris's slow breaths and steady heartbeat soothe the panic that rises whenever he thinks about his family lately.

"I'm sorry," Chris says, his voice achingly soft.

Will makes a wordless sound of confusion, and Chris starts combing his fingers through Will's hair.

"I shouldn't've pushed you so hard to talk to them. If I had any idea—"

" _No_ ," Will says in horror. He sits up fast enough that he hits Chris's hand with his face. "It's not your fault my parents are dicks, okay? And you were right to push me, 'cause I needed to tell them eventually. Like, yeah, it sucks, but it isn't your fault, and it isn't the end of the world, probably."

Chris still looks anguished, and Will brings his non-load-bearing hand up to cup Chris's jaw. "Pat and Sheila have my back," he says, gently rubbing his thumb back and forth across Chris's cheekbone. "And I have you."

The corners of Chris's eyes crinkle with the edges of his tentative smile, and Will marvels at the feeling of Chris's happiness against his fingers.

"You do," Chris whispers into the miniscule space between them, and Will's heart swells. "I've been trying to tell you that since forever."

_X_

Pat's reaction to meeting Chris isn't what Will expected. Sheila has already met him; he'd knocked on the front door to ask if she knew _"a man named Will Poindexter? He has orange hair and probably a sunburn._ " Pat, on the other hand, raises her eyebrows at the two of them when they walk into the kitchen, and asks, "This the best friend we've heard so much about?"

Will nods, hoping his ears don't give away how mortified he is. "Yeah, uh, Pat, this is Chris, he plays goalie on our hockey team. Chris, meet Pat, she's been teaching me to run a market stand and make a budget."

"It's good to meet you!" Chris enthuses, holding out a hand. "It's so cool that you guys make soap and stuff! I've always wanted to try it but I saw a video about lye and it freaked me out so bad I considered giving up _using_ soap for good."

Pat cracks a smile and shakes his hand. "It's good to meet you too; I already said we've heard a lot about you, but I'd love to learn more. Where're you from?"

With that, the tension in the room— or maybe just in Will— breaks.

Will wonders if this is how Jake felt when he brought his first girlfriend home to meet their parents.

Chris's thumb brushes gently back and forth across Will's knuckles, and Will exhales slowly and tunes back into the conversation just in time to hear Chris finish the phrase “west coast, best coast”, and Will absolutely can't let that stand.

The resulting argument is the most fun he’s had in a long time, and Will basks in the easy conversation and unfamiliar fullness in his chest.

He thinks, maybe, if he gets to keep Chris, and the home he’s made here, he can be okay with not going back to Maine.

_X_

Sheila and Pat insist on Chris sleeping in another room, but the wink Pat throws his way leaves Will pretty sure that they aren’t serious.

Either way, he sneaks down the hall to Chowder’s room, avoiding the squeaky floorboard and closing the door behind him as softly as possible.

Chris is still awake, illuminated by his phone screen and the moonlight spilling through the window, and Will lets himself drink in the sight of him like a plant in a drought.

Chris sets down his phone and sits up to lean on his elbows, equally content to stare back. His eyelids are low, eyes dark and unreadable in the dimness.

“Hey,” Will whispers, the word gusting out of his chest on too much air.

Chris smiles. “C’mere,” he jerks his head , and Will follows as if on a string. He struggles to think of anywhere he _wouldn't_ follow Chris.

He crawls across the bed, lingering over Chris for a long moment, before slowly leaning down to press their lips together. 

Chris’s breath whooses out of him, and Will can’t help but smile against his mouth.

“Shut up,” Chris whispers, smiling back, and Will giggles, leaning back to stare into his _boyfriend’s_ eyes.

“Make me,” Will huffs, and Chris’s mouth drops open.

“I-” he says, sounding overwhelmed, and Will settles next to him, one leg thrown over both of Chris’s. “Later? Later. Are you okay? Do you need anything?”

“Senior year,” Will says, as firmly as he can. “We need a game plan.”

Chris runs his fingers through Will’s hair and is quiet for a while. Will gazes up at him, mostly to make sure Chris isn’t falling asleep.

“We’re going to be fine,” Chris finally says, so decisively that it knocks the words from Will’s mouth.

“Okay,” Will says. “As long as that’s settled.”

Tomorrow, there’ll be a market day and all the chaos that comes with it. Will and Chris will wake up tangled together and have to endure an endless amount of good-natured chirping from Pat and Sheila. Tomorrow, Will will not change his major, or call his mother to apologize, but he will text Kayla to tell her about his boyfriend, to offer her a second home if she ever needs it, to tell her he loves her.

But for now, Will closes his eyes, and drifts off to the steady tattoo of Chris’ heartbeat under his cheek. For now, Will is warm, and safe, and in love.

For now, he is home.

_X_

**Epilogue, Five Years Later:**

The market is unusually crowded, and Will has barely gotten a chance to breathe all day. He ducks under the cashbox table to get his water bottle out of the cooler. There’s a lot less water in it than he remembers, and he suspects that his boyfriend (who had insisted he didn’t need one) has been drinking out of it too. 

He puts it back, stands up, and comes very close to spitting out his mouthful of water.

NHL Star Derek Nurse is standing in front of their booth, looking lost as hell. Of course. Because if there’s one day for Will’s celebrity crush to show up at their local farmers market, it’s today.

Will takes a deep breath, wipes all knowledge of what NHL Star Derek Nurse’s ass looks like from his mind, and approaches him. “Hi,” he says in his most normal customer service voice. “Can I help you?”

“I need, uh,” NHL Star Derek Nurse glances down at a crumpled piece of paper in his hand. It looks like it was torn out of a sketchbook. “Peaches?”

Will looks at him, then the bins of fruit between them, then back at him, and then gives up. He turns around, searching for Chris, who appears to have vanished right when Will needs him most.

“Yo, Chow?” he calls, trying not to sound panicked.

Chris jumps up from behind the cooler like a wide-eyed jack-in-the-box. _Water bottle stealing bastard_ , Will thinks fondly.

“Yeah?” Chris hollers back, wiping his hands down the front of his jeans and Will takes a moment to appreciate how hot and comfortingly familiar his boyfriend is.

He cocks his head towards NHL Star Derek Nurse, and glares when Chris smirks at him.

His eyebrows and cheeks must convey his harried state, because Chris makes his way over without any more chirping, and Will beats a hasty retreat to greet the old lady who tried to steal a quart of strawberries last week after they refused to give her a senior discount. She’s looking shifty by his berries again.

“Hey, what's up,” Will hears Chowder ask NHL Star Derek Nurse, calm as anything.

Will is maybe going to explode, but first he pastes on a smile and says, “ _afternoon, Gladys_ ” just to see her jump.

It’s pretty satisfying.

**Author's Note:**

> Content Warnings:  
> \- Dex has an unhealthily competitive relationship with his older brother, and his parents are manipulative, unsupportive of his career choices, and implied to be homophobic.  
> \- Main characters have multiple on-page panic attacks and school-related existential crises  
> Thank you so much for reading!! Please let me know what you think!


End file.
